


comma;

by kanames_harisen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-08-20 23:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20235907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanames_harisen/pseuds/kanames_harisen
Summary: Granger gives him the coldest glare he's ever seen."The only one responsible for Ron's death was the wizard who cursed him, and that man is rotting in Azkaban, soulless from the Kiss." For a moment, she stays like that, as hard and immovable as granite. Then she sighs and her face softens. "But if you need my forgiveness to move on, you have it. I forgive you, Draco Malfoy, for whatever part you think you played in my husband's death."





	comma;

**Author's Note:**

> My assigned fairy tale, _Brides on Trial_, is a ficlet about a bride choosing a husband by observing how her potential suitors eat cheese. I used that premise to create my take on a dramione arranged marriage fic, sans the cheese. This is my first fic in almost exactly two years, so I'm praying I'm not too rusty...
> 
> The quotes at the beginning of each chapter are lines from the song, _Waste It On Me_, by Steve Aoki (ft. BTS).
> 
> Beta'd very last minute by my lovely daughter, drama's tokijin! It has not been brit-picked, so if as an American I've made a mistake in phrasing or spelling, please feel free to let me know.

**.**

**.**

**.oOo.**

_ Treat me like a comma  
_ _And I’ll take you to a new phrase_

**.oOo.**

**.**

It's late when Draco leaves the office. He nods to the pair of Aurors assigned overnight duty and walks down the empty hallway with his magically-shrunk briefcase tucked into his shirt pocket.

The gruesome nature of his latest case –_ a string of children murdered in Knockturn Alley _ – sickens him to the core. With little evidence left behind at the crime scenes, he has no suspects and few leads. What he does have is a strong sense of urgency to get this predator off the streets, preferably sharing an Azkaban cell with a Dementor. So he does the only thing he can for now: pound the pavement for potential witnesses and copious amounts of research. He drags his hands slowly down his face, rubbing his tired eyes and scratching at the stubble on his chin as he waits for an elevator.

In his distraction, Draco nearly fails to register the charm – _a proximity spell of his own creation_ – chiming in his ear. The brief five seconds he has before he hears the clack of her heels behind him isn’t enough to take any kind of decisive action. He stifles a curse. She shouldn’t even be here. She should be two floors down, safely stowed away in her office, or home with her kids like the reasonable person she’s always purported herself to be. 

This isn't how he wanted to meet her again, mentally exhausted and physically ragged from his inability to do his damn job. In all honesty, he's not sure if he ever wanted to meet Hermione Granger again. Period. End of. Guilt presses heavy on his spine, bending his usually impeccable posture, and his heart pumps so wildly he can hear the rush of blood in his ears. Nausea washes over him like a wave. She comes to a stop next to him, and he waits to receive her anger and disgust. It's the least he can do after what he's done.

Nothing comes.

He spares her a sidelong glance. It seems she has yet to realise that he's the one standing next to her. She rummages in her bag, paper held between her lips and under her chin, as she organises her files. The elevator dings and its door opens, interrupting her process. It's only once she's inside it that she looks up and sees him. The expression that settles on her face in that instant isn't one he can read. He hesitates.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Malfoy," she says. Her is voice steady. Normal. As if seeing him is a natural part of her workday. "Quit dawdling."

Draco shoves his hands in his pockets and crosses the threshold. She pushes the button for the Atrium, and the elevator begins its descent to level eight. The air inside the elevator feels thick with tension, stifling his breath like claws wrapped around his throat. Heat flushes his face and ears, while his hands turn cold and clammy. In a moment of panic, Draco hits the stop button. 

_ Fuck it,_ he thinks. _ It's now or never. _

He's put it off for way too long, and it's eating him from the inside out. He can't continue like this, not with her right there in front of him. There's a reason he made that charm, after all. Avoidance comes as easy to him as breathing. But so does stupidity and self-sabotage.

"Malfoy, what–?"

"I'm sorry," he says on a shaky exhale. It's barely audible, even to his own ears. He clears his throat and tries again. "I'm sorry, Granger. I–"

"It's been two years–"

"I know, and I should have – and, _ fuck… _this is hard." Grovelling does not come naturally to Draco. His Malfoy family pride took a beating in the years since the war, but it’s still alive and kicking in protest of his current actions. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging a bit as he goes, and the slight pain centres him. "I should have said this back then, but I've always been a damn coward. I'm sorry for what I've done to you and your family. Ron is– he was a good man and I–"

"Get a grip, Malfoy. You're practically hyperventilating." She grabs his shoulder and turns him, forcing him to face her. The shock of her touch stills him, but she doesn’t let go. She simply waits for his breathing to return to normal. "Listen to me carefully because I don't have the time or energy to say this more than once. I've had a shit Monday, and I'm late getting home to my kids. Look at me." At her command, he lifts his head. "You have nothing to apologise for."

"But I was his trainer and I–"

"I've read the reports, Malfoy. More importantly, I know my husband. He hated you nearly all his life, and never more so than when he was assigned to you for field training." Draco feels a burn well up behind his eyes and tries to step out of Granger's hold. She squeezes tighter. "But that changed. You managed the impossible and earned Ron's respect. He spoke well of you to me and Harry. To his family. He wouldn't have done that if you were still the selfish, prejudiced prat from school."

She finally releases him. Draco steps back and slumps against the cold metal behind him. The ache in his eyes sharpens and try as he might, he can't keep a tear from falling.

"That may be true, but that doesn't change the fact that I lead him into a situation he wasn't ready for and he died because of it. I'm responsible."

Granger restarts the elevator and gives him the coldest glare he's ever seen. "The only one responsible for Ron's death was the wizard who cursed him, and that man is rotting in Azkaban, soulless from the Kiss." For a moment, she stays like that, as hard and immovable as granite. Then she sighs, adjusts her bag's strap to better fit on her shoulder, and her face softens. "But if you need my forgiveness to move on, you have it. I forgive you, Draco Malfoy, for whatever part you think you played in my husband's death."

The elevator dings, and its door opens. Granger walks directly to the nearest exit Floo and grabs some powder. She looks back at him once more, then she's gone into the green flames.

"Fuck," he whispers to the empty Ministry lobby.

**.oOo.**

"I'm fine. It was a rough day, is all." Hermione leans forward, her elbows braced heavily on the table, and shrugs. She sees pity in Harry's eyes and sadness in Ginny's, and it's almost enough to make her break. To cry. To yell. To rage about the utter unfairness of the circumstances she finds herself in. Instead, she takes a sip of her wine and listens for the sound of little feet. Judging from the grim expressions her friends are wearing, tonight's conversation will not be for children's ears. "You're sure the kids are asleep?"

"Yes, Hermione. For the fifth time, the kids are asleep, neatly tucked into their beds." Harry raises a hand before she can interject. "And yes, the Muffliato charm is perfectly sufficient. Ginny cast it." He reaches over and pats her arm. "You can talk about it, you know."

“Talk about what?” The only answer her question receives is silence. Ginny kicks Harry under the table and jerks her head in Hermione’s direction. Harry grunts. As he rubs his sore shin, his eyebrows rise and fall in an awkward, intricate dance of covert communication with his wife. Hermione stares at Harry, mouth slightly agape. "Oh god, this is an intervention."

"You need help," Ginny says, her mouth firm but gaze gentle. "But we can't help if we don't know what's going on. Look, we know something's wrong. And don't blame it on Ron; it's more recent than that. Over the past few months, you've been, I don't know… distant? Troubled? Whatever it is, we want to help. Please, just talk to us."

Hermione stands and paces in front of the table, wringing her hands. She wanted to do this by herself, to find a solution on her own. To protect what was left of their family – _ hers and Ron's _– with her own strength. She's the brightest witch of her age, isn't she? She should be able to come up with a solution on her own. But all of the sleepless nights she spent researching and brainstorming have been for naught, every possibility a dead end.

Harry and Ginny wait as she gathers her thoughts. Where should she begin? Logically she knows she should start at the beginning, but her emotions have everything so twisted up inside her brain that she blurts out, "I received a Howler today."

"A Howler?" Harry repeats, his expression dark. "If someone's been harassing you–"

"No. Merlin, Harry, _ no_." Hermione flops back into her chair and hides behind her hands for just a moment. She takes a deep breath, straightens her spine, and faces her friends. She's exhausted all her personal resources. It's time to swallow her pride, for their sake. For Hugo and Rose.

_ (For Ron.) _

"It was from Raskin and Tweeds." When no recognition shows on either of their faces, she fidgets. "The lending company?"

"Wait," Ginny says, understanding sparking brilliant in her brown eyes. "That's the company that owns your mortgage. Are you in danger of losing the house?"

"It's worse than that." Hermione swallows the bile crawling up her throat. It bites and burns as it travels back down to her stomach, and she nearly chokes on it. She doesn't want to say what comes next, doesn't want to have to admit it. She's drifted into a parallel universe where her worst nightmare is a reality and speaking it out loud feels, somehow, like etching it into stone. Permanent. Unavoidable. "I have two months to pay off the loan or I lose the house, _and they'll_ take me to court. It's a despicable practice, but perfectly legal. If they win, I'll have to pay immediately or be sentenced to two years in Azkaban."

Her confession falls on the room like a heavy winter snow, cold and desolate. No one says anything. Harry and Ginny look as nauseated as she feels.

It's Harry that breaks the silence.

"Over my dead body." He stands and smacks his palms across the tabletop with the voracity of lightning. "If they think–"

"You see?" Hermione gestures at Harry. Her pleading gaze locks onto Ginny's, sharing a moment of commiseration that only people subjected to Harry's recklessness could understand. Then Ginny tugs on the crook of his arm, coaxing him back into his seat. "This is why I didn't say anything. Righteous indignation, even from the Boy Who Lived, isn't going to solve my problem. It's going to exacerbate it. I can't afford to have harassment charges added to the list of things they'll throw at me in front of the Wizengamot." 

"Are you sure?" Harry asks. "Because I can–"

"_Harry_."

"It's all right, Ginny. I'm ashamed to say that was one of the first scenarios I considered, right behind transfiguring everyone employed by Raskin and Tweeds into roaches and trapping them in glass jars until I've paid off my loan. But I'm sure fifty-three missing people would be cause for an investigation." Hermione laughs, unpleasant and derisive, and shakes her head. She's cracked a bit under the pressure of the last few months, and she can feel everything – _ her anger, her sadness, her fears _ – threatening to seep out. "I know there are perks to being the best friend of Harry Potter, but it feels wrong to use it like this. Isn't that exactly the kind of thing we spent our youth fighting against?" She takes one of his hands, cradles it in both of hers, and waits until she has his full attention. Her sorrow slides down her cheek. "You can't save me this time, Harry."

"Okay," he says, swiping at the tears gathering under his glasses. "Okay."

Ginny crushes Hermione into an awkward side hug, the arms of their chairs digging into their hips. That small gesture is all it takes. Hermione sobs into her friend's shoulder, purging the pent up grief and worry. It's an inelegant display, tears and hiccups and snot, but Ginny simply runs her fingers over Hermione's hair and lets her cry. When the tears have receded and all that's left is an erratic shudder in her chest, Harry sets a cup of tea in front of her.

"If I don't get to be the hero, we best get plotting."

Hermione laughs again, and this time it sounds like relief and gratitude. Like hope. "I suppose we should."

"The rotten bastards won't know what hit them." Ginny grins. "What are we up against, Hermione? How much do you owe?"

"Eighty-thousand galleons."

Harry buries his hands in his unruly hair. "Fuck."

"Yes, exactly. _ Fuck_." Hermione raises her hands in half-hearted surrender.

"I don't mean to be insensitive," Ginny says, confusion drawing lines into the plane of her forehead, "but how? Your house is lovely, but it can't be worth even half that amount."

"Ron was so excited to be a father, you know." Hermione sighs, bittersweet and nostalgic, and stares into her teacup. "He saw this house, and he knew– just knew that it was the home for our family. But we couldn't afford it with him working for George. So he got on with the DMLE. We used our savings for a down payment, and everything was fine. More than fine, actually. It was great. Until…" Even now, she can't say it, not without shedding tears. "Afterward I couldn't make the payments. I made arrangements with the lenders for a reduced payment schedule for a year, but at a higher interest rate. I thought– I really thought I'd have figured something out by then, but–"

"But you couldn't," Ginny says.

"No, I couldn't. My account has been delinquent for the past ten months, racking up extra interest and penalties. I tried to negotiate for another extension, but they declined my request." Hermione's battered pride constricts her throat, and she whispers the last of her words through the painful sensation. "I don't know what to do."

"Can you sell the house?" Harry asks.

"Yes, but Ginny's right. The market value is only about forty-thousand galleons." Hermione retrieves a notebook from her work bag on the counter and taps it with her wand. It opens, revealing a neatly written ledger. "I've compiled a list of all my assets, anything I can sell or cash in. Best case scenario, I can cover sixty-thousand of the loan. That’s with selling the house."

"Well, we can…" Harry glances at Ginny, and she nods. "We can add fifteen-thousand to your ledger."

"No_._ I can't. I won't."

"Why the hell not?" Ginny holds up her hand, palm towards Hermione. "Never mind. I don't want to hear your excuses. Consider it payment for all the times you kept my idiot husband alive."

"But–"

"Don't forget who you're trying to argue with. Ron was my brother. I promised him, Hermione." Ginny's voice trembles, but her determination doesn't waver. "I promised him I would do everything I could for you and the kids in his absence. Don't you dare make me break that promise."

"Wow," Harry says. "I didn't expect you to play that card."

Ginny waves vaguely in Hermione's direction. "She's stubborn. I had to."

Hermione ignores the slight jab and taps her wand to the notebook again. A Muggle pen materialises in the crease between the pages. With a deep breath, she adds fifteen-thousand galleons to the end of her calculations. She doesn't want to. It feels like she's stealing something important from her niece and nephews and hoarding it for herself. For her kids. It's an irrational impulse, though, so she lets it go.

"Thank you. Truly. It's a huge help. But," Hermione turns the notebook so that it's facing the centre of the table, "there's still a bit unaccounted for. Any ideas?"

On paper, her situation seems less dire, the sum that she has yet to cover a mere fraction of the total. But she knows that in reality, coming up with another five-thousand galleons is a daunting task. If she had another year, or two, she might be able to raise that amount. But in two months? It's improbable. They'll need an exceptional plan.

"I've got nothing." Harry ducks his head, wearing an apologetic grimace. "I'll keep thinking on it, though."

"I might have an idea." Ginny eyes Hermione cautiously. "But you'll have to keep an open mind." 

"I think I have a remarkably open mind. Don't you think so, Harry?"

Harry is taken by a sudden fit of coughing. Hermione glares at him but chooses not to confront the implication in her friend's malady. Instead, she gestures for Ginny to continue.

"Promise me you'll hear me out before you freak out."

"_Ginny_."

"Okay, fine." Ginny looks at them both, first Harry and then Hermione, and announces, "You need to get married to a pure-blood wizard." When neither of them reacts, she continues, frustration in her voice. "So you can receive that _merry mixed marriage award_ – or whatever it's called – that the Ministry gives out to promote positive Muggle-born sentiment. You know what I’m talking about; they gave it to you and Ron. Isn't it exactly–?"

"Five-thousand galleons," Hermione finishes.

"I know it seems like a drastic measure," Ginny says. "But with your situation, I just– I don't…" She takes Hermione's hand. "Marriage doesn't always have to be for love. Sometimes it's about companionship, or security, or any number of other things. And there are people, marriage brokers, who can help you navigate that. If you decide–"

"I'll think about it." Hermione stands, surprised her numb legs can hold her weight. She feels lighter for having shared her burden but chilled by the only viable solution offered. The juxtaposition leaves her off-kilter, and Hermione is suddenly filled with an all-consuming weariness. As much as she loves Harry and Ginny, she’s ready to be alone. She points to the Floo in the corner of the room. "It's late. Go home to your kids. I'm sure their Uncle George would like to sleep in his own bed tonight."

They leave after the perfunctory goodbyes.

Hermione falls asleep on the sofa, too tired to climb the stairs to her room.

**.oOo.**

Over the next three days, Hermione sticks as closely to her daily routine as possible. 

She rises with the sun so she can shower before the children wake and the chaos of the morning begins in earnest. There are lunchboxes to be filled, beds to be made, and wiggly bodies to clothe. At five years old, Hugo is an independent little man. He prepares his backpack each day without assistance, something Hermione is immensely grateful for, and waits patiently in the kitchen for his breakfast. Rose, barely more than a toddler, tends to require a more hands-on approach. It's a fight to get everyone where they need to go on time – _ the children to the Burrow and herself to work _ – but she wouldn't trade it for all the gold in Gringotts.

She walks into her office in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at 7:30 am every day. Her secretary, who once told her he sets the time of his pocket watch by her punctuality, holds up a small stack of memos as she passes by his desk. He doesn't look up from his work, even when she snatches them from his hand.

In the pre-lunch portion of her day, Hermione deals with internal office matters. She meets individually with her subordinates, checking on the progress of their current cases, and delegates any new incoming fieldwork. Cases requiring cooperation between other divisions within the DRCMC, or between other departments, Hermione takes for herself as head of the Being Division. Her afternoons are reserved for meetings with clients. Paperwork claims a sizeable chunk of her workday with little regard as to the state of lunch.

During her lunch hours, Hermione finalizes the minutiae of her plan. By Friday, she feels confident she’s taken every possible derailment into account, along with a corresponding contingency plan for each. Every detail is accounted for except one.

_ (The marriage broker.) _

Avoidance does not come naturally to Hermione. True to Gryffindor form, she tends to be expedient and straight forward in her problem-solving methodology. Logic must strongly dictate a subtle solution for her to choose a protracted path. Bravery and brains, Ron once said.

This time, though, Hermione’s courage fails her. She can’t do this herself; her stomach turns at the mere thought of it. She’ll have to rely on her intelligence instead. If she is unable to complete this step of the plan, she’ll simply have to delegate it to someone who can. 

_If she_ decides to go through with it.

Time is running out. Objectively, she knows this. Just like she knows which choice she needs to make. But her illogical, sentimental heart keeps stalling. It speaks to her when she wakes, as her peaceful illusions shatter in the cold emptiness of her bed. It says, _ just a few more days... please, Merlin, just a few more days_. Its refrain sings through the goodbye hugs and kisses she lavishes on her children amidst the familial warmth of Molly’s kitchen. It cries out whenever she spies a flash of red hair or feels the reverberation of metal on metal in the digits of her left hand. It knows her current moratorium is nearing its end and, in spite of her best efforts, her heart stages a coup against her mind.

It draws up the battle lines.  
_ (What if I can’t find love? What if I’m no longer capable of it? What if…?) _

It brandishes its weapon.  
_ (But what if I can?) _

And it strikes.  
_ (Which one do I fear more?) _

The thought stills her breath. Hermione grits her teeth and thinks of her family, of how she must protect them, and the moment passes. Her decision is made. She pens a memo to Harry and, after having her secretary clear her schedule for the rest of the afternoon, decides to rearrange her bookshelves while she waits.

The knock comes quicker than she expects. She hasn’t even finished alphabetising her manuals on house-elf linguistics separately from her catalogues on modern house-elf fashion.

“Come in!”

Hermione hops off her step stool, fully expecting to be greeted by Harry. Instead, her secretary stands in the doorway holding a small rectangular box wrapped in silver paper. “A package has arrived for you, Mrs. Weasley.”

He hands off the parcel with a brisk nod first to Hermione, and then Harry, who arrives just as the exchange wraps up.

“Thank you, Roland,” Hermione says as the man withdraws.

“Yes, Roland, thank you.” Harry grins. “It was a lovely chat, as always.”

Hermione pulls Harry into her office and shuts the door. “Stop picking on him. I hired him for his work ethic and efficiency, not his conversational skills.”

“That much is obvious.” Harry takes a seat as she settles in behind her desk. “So, you’re done avoiding us, yeah? Damn, I thought you’d hold out until Monday at least. I owe Ginny a new pair of shoes.”

“I’d say I can’t believe you’d make wagers over the state of my agreeability towards your company, but I know you both too well. I don’t know why you even bother. Ginny’s always right.” Hermione rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t avoiding you, though.” 

Harry crosses his arms and snorts. “Sure.” 

“Okay, fine. I was.” Hermione recants. “But not because I was angry. I just needed space to think.”

“Have you finished thinking? Because I have to say, Ginny and I miss you. We’d like to get on with our regularly scheduled friendship. If that’s okay with you, of course.”

“I’m quite finished. Unless you’ve come up with any alternatives?”

“No.” Harry frowns. “Have you?”

“No.” Hermione shakes her head. Anxiety builds in her belly, but she tamps it down. She refuses to favour emotions over logic for when her choice carries so much weight over her family’s future. “Ginny’s plan it is then. Do you think she would make arrangements with a marriage broker for me? I’m not sure I–”

The words freeze on the back of her tongue. She can’t finish the sentence, not without a breakdown.

“It’s gonna be all right, Hermione.” Harry reaches across the desk and takes her hand. “I’m sure Ginny would love to help you in any way she can. I’ll ask her to schedule an appointment with the best broker London has to offer.”

“I can’t afford that.”

“But I can.” When she opens her mouth to argue, Harry chastises her with a parental kind of sternness. “Hermione Jean Granger, if you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right. And if that means you have to swallow your damn pride and accept some help, then so be it.”

Hermione nods. Moisture gathers along her bottom line of eyelashes, but she swipes it away and gathers her composure. “Thank you, Harry.”

“Of course.” He settles back in his chair and points to the package on her desk. “Who’s the present from?”

“I’ve no idea. Besides, who says it’s a present?”

“It’s certainly wrapped up like one.”

Hermione picks up the box. The wrapping is quite pretty, shimmering silver tied up with a gold ribbon, and whatever is inside is light; she barely feels the weight of it in her hands. She’s tempted to shake it like she used to do to the Christmas gifts from her parents. Working at the Ministry, surrounded by magic light and dark, has taught her the folly of such an action. She doesn’t want to inadvertently set off a spell.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Harry asks. “Open it.”

She unties the bow and lifts the lid. Under a folded piece of parchment lies a round pendant attached to a thin gold chain. The pale stone which jewelry is fashioned from is like nothing Hermione has ever seen. At first glance, it bears some similarity to an opal, but there is a depth to its iridescence that no opal could ever hope to achieve.

“So, who’s it from? What’s the note say?”

“Give me a minute.” Hermione unfolds the paper as Harry grabs the box to get a better look. “_Dear Mrs. Weasley, I found this trinket as I packed up the family cottage. It was my great grandmother’s, who, as you know, was a magical anomaly. Since she did not inherit any Veela traits, despite being biologically half-Veela, her mother had the pendant commissioned for her. It is made from goblin-wrought moonstone, infused with Veela blood, and supposedly carries some type of romantic enchantment. I thought you might find the piece of academic interest and so I am gifting it to you. Consider it a token of my gratitude for bringing my lovely Herbert and me together. Sincerely, Carissa St. Leon._”

“That’s quite a gift.” Harry hands the box back to her. “And kind of timely, don’t you think?”

Hermione lifts the necklace out of the box, letting it dangle from her fingers as she examines it. “How so?”

“Well, it has romantic enchantments and you’re in the market for a husband. I didn’t think it was that much of a mental leap.” Harry’s tone is light, teasing, but there is a trace of concern in his eyes. “You all right?”

“I’m perfectly fine.” She drops the pendant back into its box and closes the lid. “But make no mistake, Harry. I’m not looking for romance. I’m seeking an amicable partner for a long-term business arrangement.”

“Just consider it, okay. For me?” She doesn’t respond even when he stands, so Harry pulls her out of her chair. He draws her into a hug and whispers, “You deserve happiness and love, Hermione.”

Hermione thinks about that for a long time after he leaves.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for not completing this fic in time for the fest posting. Unfortunately, my family spent the summer dealing with difficult and tragic circumstances. A huge thank you to TheMourningMadam for letting me post what I had finished. I hope to have the rest of the chapters written and ready for posting soon-ish, but please bear with me; grieving is hard.


End file.
